


collect the word (and add some gold)

by orphan_account



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	collect the word (and add some gold)

Ryan is sometimes jealous of Michael. He thinks that's mainly a good thing, because if anyone else but himself was a constant second behind Michael, Michael might suffer from the occasional well-planned accident. It's not like it's easy to stand a step below another man. It's never been easy, and even Ryan has a hard time accepting it at times.

But he gets over it, that's the important thing. He prides himself on that character trait, that he's easy-going enough to accept things as they come. And second place is not so bad, especially when first place is taken by someone you like a lot and who is, if you're completely honest, a tad better. It would be harder if it was just luck, but it's not quite.

And, well, it's hard not to feel a little bit for Michael, sometimes. After all, guy got his heart broken by a swimmer once already, and pretty much everyone close to him knows about his new crush. Even Ryan knows about it, since Michael's hardly subtle, and Ryan's the one Michael's crushing on. He doesn't think Michael intended for him to know. But sportsmen are gossips, so things come around.

They're friends, that's it. Ryan can't - doesn't want to imagine anything else. Not even sometimes, when he lies in bed with his hand down his pants, wishing someone else's palm was getting him off. There's time, sometimes, to find a suitable someone at parties or clubs, but not a lot of time, and honestly, he's never been a one-night kind of guy.

The Olympic Village is great, the rooms are... roomy. He can take a break there, which is important. He can be undisturbed there, when he's out of the water, finished with training, and just wants some quiet time. He never needs much quiet time - he's a rather sociable guy, after all - but now and then, it does him some good to relax in silence.

He doesn't want silence now, though. He want some serious distraction, because his head is swirling with too many thoughts, and he'd love to call home, but he knows his family; they're all out of the house by now, early birds that they are. So finally, he finnagles his cell out of the pocket of his recently discarded jeans and quickly writes a text message.

Two minutes later, it vibrates with the arrival of a reply. You're crazy, it says, with a smiley on top. We got training tomorrow morning. No way. Which basically means yes. Ryan grabs his jeans again, slips into them and makes his way to save Michael from the depths of boredom to be found in his room. They're going clubbing.

 

~*~

 

"People'll recognize us," Michael complains when Ryan drags him into a bar. It's past nine, but the streets are still filled with workmen suits and people hastening to finish grocery shopping.

"Nobody'll recognize you," Ryan snorts. "They all just know how you look out of your clothes. Put on some shirt and nobody'll know who you are."

"Very funny." Michael looks like he's half going to pout.

"Aw, don't be disappointed. Me, people wouldn't even recognize if I dropped the gear. So there you go. You still win."

"Great."

"Beer?"

Michael sighs, but he does finally sit down next to Ryan and nods.

"Right, so this is the plan."

"There is a plan?"

Ryan glares. "Shut up. There totally is a master plan."

"You're crazy. I keep telling you, and you keep not listening. You. Are certified crazy. In the head."

"Aw, Michael," Ryan pats his thigh. "I didn't know you cared."

"Take your paws off of my leg, man."

Ryan grins, but he does and instead grabs his glass and takes a sip. "So, the plan. First, we get smashed here. You can tell me all about your bleedin' heart or, you know, we can just talk hip-hop and sports, and then, we go find a club that has some good music and is purely Chinese - because dude, I've heard they know how to party - and we get some dancing on."

"You realize we'll be dead if we're not top-fit tomorrow at five am?"

"You need more than three hours of sleep?" Ryan blinks.

Michael glares, but he grabs his beer and doesn't protest. Which, all in all, Ryan had expected, because Michael's a push-over, and he's a huge push-over for Ryan in particular. What can he say. Ryan knows how to take advantage, is all. And company is company, no matter whether the person in question's after your ass or not.

 

~*~

 

Except of course, nothing goes as planned. Because when Ryan said they'd get some dancing on, he meant. He meant dancing with other people, but by then, of course, he's had three beers and two vodka shots and that's - well. When Michael presses up against him in the dark as they start to shake their hips to the music, it's not like Ryan can protest. The music is far too loud.

And anyway, there was the alcohol.

So he doesn't say anything, and he says even less when Michael starts mouthing at his neck, just little licks of rough tongue, trailing to the back of his ear, teeth scraping over skin. It makes his dick hard in his pants, which feels good. And Michael knows, and he's hard too, and Ryan's really not normally gay, but for Michael, he guesses, he can make an exception. At least that's how he rationalizes it to himself, because in the back of his mind, there is definitely a warning jingle of, 'Dude, that guy's been in love with you for a good year and a half now. Cut it out.'

He doesn't listen to it, because here's his opportunity to get finally, finally laid, after what - eight weeks of abstinence. Eight weeks of hell, more like it. Ryan doesn't know how other guys do it, but he really can't take more celibacy than that. It drives him up the walls in frustration. Which is, he guesses, why he had this shitty idea in the first place when he came back from practice today.

Going clubbing with Michael. Man, he should have known where that would lead.

 

~*~

 

It leads, predictably, into his bed. Because Michael's a dog.

Well, no, that's not true. Michael doesn't even seem too interested in sex most of the time, and he's always the last one to make a smutty joke about anything. He's surprisingly shy about anything sexual in nature. Cullen's more the type to brag and boast. In detail. Which is so not something Ryan wants to hear, hot girl or not.

Ryan doesn't kiss and tell. Or fuck and tell, for that matter. Which is good. Because if he did, he just knows he'd run around the Olympic Village tomorrow with a huge sign saying 'Guess who did Michael Phelps last night'. Dead give-away. Possibly, people would take it for one of his usual pranks. And isn't that an idea.

"C'mon, c'mon, oh, oh, fuck," is all he gets in response from Michael, who is busy rubbing their dicks together, hand closed around them tightly, jerking them both off. Which feels... strangly great. Brilliant, even. If Ryan had the breath to actually evaluate his expertise. Which he doesn't, because five almost-words and a moan later, Michael's covering his mouth again with his own, pushing his tongue in, and that shouldn't be as sexy, but it totally is.

Ryan thinks maybe he is a little bit not-quite-so-straight after all. He can't say he's too sorry for the booze tonight either. If he'd known Michael was so good in bed, he might have taken him up on this years ago.

 

~*~

 

Or not.

They wake up lying next to each other, touching upper arms and Michael's knee is hot against his leg. Ryan groans a little bit and tries not to think about the fact that he has Michael's dried jizz on his stomach. Or that his mouth tastes like cotton and sex. Or about the fact that Michael had his mouth on Ryan's cock just before Ryan came for the second time.

Bad thoughts. They make his dick spring to life, which is not so brilliant at all, because a glance at the alarm clock tells him it's already half past four and they have to be out of this door at five am to make it to their morning training session.

"Michael," he mutters, sitting up. "Shit."

"Mh-mh," Michael mumbles into the pillow.

"Get up. We're going to be late. Didn't you set the alarm?"

"'n my room," Michael says. "'t time 'sit?"

"Five."

"Oh, shit." Michael jumps up, off the bed, grabbing his jeans and underwear in a manoever that leaves Ryan staring at him open-mouthed. "Shit, shit, shit, we'll get killed, I told you there was no way in hell we should go clubbing the night before -"

"I was kidding. I wasn't serious. It's half past four."

Michael blinks, opens his mouth, closes it again. Then he says, "You bastard." It sounds really heart-felt.

"But it was one way to get you out of my bed." Ryan grins a bit.

Michael doesn't seem to think it's funny. He sits down on the edge carefully, not looking at Ryan. "So, uhm."

And Ryan really hopes Michael's going to give him the easy way out here, because Michael's a cool guy, he understands these things. Ryan really, really hopes that, because he isn't quite sure what he's going to do otherwise.

Unfortunately, Michael has other plans. Which, if Ryan thinks about it, he should have known, because Michael tends to go after something once it's in his reach unapologetically and without consideration. If he sees even the tiniest bit of a chance, he makes a grab. Just on the off-chance. So he asks, and now he locks eyes with Ryan, "You want to do this again sometime? Under - hm. Under less influence of booze and when we don't have, uhm. Two hours or so before we have to get up again?"

Ryan wants to hit his head against some wall hard, because he has no idea what he's thinking when he says, "Sure." Probably nothing. Or, he reconsiders, his dick is doing all the thinking, again. 'Don't hook up with someone who's in love with you when you don't love them back,' his best friend's always warned him, 'because everyone will end up hurt.'

Ryan's never been too good with following advice.

 

~~~


End file.
